


The Windmire Waltz

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Game, Alternate Universe- Fates Makes Sense, Canon Divergence, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Dancing, Drama, Emmeryn is a Heartbreaker, F/F, Lesbians Lesbians Everywhere, Nobody should live in Windmire, Oneshot, Slow Dancing, Unrequited Love, Waltzing, Windmire is Basically Kirkwall, crackship, fefemslashweek, femslash week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Garon is not a creature of stone. He, like any other man in the dusk-lit streets of Nohr, has a heart that beats as sure as any other, and somewhat of a taste for the whimsical. Had he not, the diplomatic rendezvous with Ylisse would've been solely that boring affair, but what fun would that be? It so happens the Ylissean royal family is in town the same time Nohr's traditional end-of-summer celebrations would fall. A masquerade ball, King Garon has decided, is the perfect auspice.</p><p>Camilla couldn't care less about the 'why' of the ball, but she's very concerned with the 'what,' considering the fact that the 'what' is nervous heart palpitations in the face of the Exalt asking her to dance. She's a bigger person than this. She's dealt with things ten times more harrowing and dangerous than things with soft hands and green skirts.</p><p>And yet this dance takes her breath away quicker than a sky-high dive on the back of her wyvern, and she feels like the blushing teenager she never got to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Windmire Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> "Here, look, why don't we-- see, I fixed it for you, isn't that better. What do you mean you don't want lesbians in it. What do you _mean_ Fates and Awakening are set in two different universes. Get the fuck out of my office Tony" --Me
> 
> so i wanted to make emmeryn and camilla dance together so i did. basically canon can Eat My Entire Ass
> 
> also i don't remember if it's "windmire" or "windmere" but windmire sounds better so i'm using that

They call it the City of Shadows— a bit of an overdramatic name for a city full of light, but whoever "they" are have clearly never been to Windmire. At first it may seem dark, as is natural for a city built in rings around what looks like a massive crater. It is filled with tunnels leading to a dark and dank undercity and perilous staircases leading back up to the dry, pockmarked surface of Nohr. Its sky-facing circular catwalks and roads are the turf of travelers and rich folk and the cavernous system of storm drains beneath belong to everyone less fortunate; the poorest of the poor in Nohr's capitol city claim the emptied channels of the mines that once held a wealth of jewels and coal. Nohr is a country stuffed to the brim with extremes— nobility on the surface, with their manors built into the city walls and balconies that overlook the world they own, and everyone below forced down, down into the tunnels and mines and drains and the maze of streets that make the lower levels. It is not fair, but the rest of Nohr's land is barely hospitable for anything but low-light plants and night-dwelling animals. The people do what they must to avoid the choking sandstorms and fierce squalls; the weather itself as much at odds with itself as the people West of the Bottomless Chasm.  
  
But Windmire, to those who have had the chance to live in it, is as full of light as the night sky. Torches burn at all hours, lanterns emblazoned with shadow designs of dragons and coyotes hang along every street, and orbs of colorful magic float through the air as feathers do. Nohr is a land where shadows dance with flame— where no one can quite be sure if darkness is the absence of light, or vice versa. It is a wonderous sight, to those who are fortunate enough to have time to take it all in.  
  
The lantern light reflects in the blood-red liquid in the crystal glass, washing the shadowberry wine in shades of orange and violet. High, high above, through layers of gauzy black clouds, there's a pale late-summer moon. The night in the grove is warm, lit with painstakingly-prepared tea lights hanging in little colored jars hanging from the craggy trees. Music permeates the heavy, dry air, a familiar waltz Camilla has known since she was small. She imitates the steps halfheartedly, her violet skirts swishing as she sways. Her boots are quiet against the tight-lain cobblestones. She is by herself in the grove. There are fireflies.  
  
"Usually, such a dance is done with two," says a voice. Camilla has memorized its lilting, dulcet tone from her time at her father's right side in the courtrooms. Behind the slits of her mask, made to look like razor-sharp wyvern wings, she glances over.  
  
The voice is strong but quiet, a weapon in a sheath— it matches its owner, the young Exalt of Ylisse, with perfection Camilla can only strive for. She is a sight in pale green and white, pale hair sitting perfectly over her shoulders, mask a pristine white like the wings of a noble-bred Hoshidan pegasus. She is iridescent in the colorful dusklight of Windmire. Camilla has never lain eyes on anyone so perfect.  
  
"I couldn't find a partner in the ballroom," Camilla replies, as she is expected to do.  
  
"A shame," the Exalt says, striding over to Camilla's side with just enough languor to seem nonchalant about the whole thing. Camilla's heart pounds out of her chest despite everything when Emmeryn takes her hand, presses an impartial kiss to its back in a mimicry of the way those of lower social status do; the joke lies in that they are both of relatively equal social standing, and such a gesture is meant to be coyly flirtatious without being disrespectful. The games nobles play do not change between countries. The fact that Emmeryn is, if anything, higher, only adds to the effect.  
  
"It must seem terribly forward of me," Emmeryn says. "Inviting you to dance when you lack another partner."  
  
Camilla's throat is dry. She swallows and it does not help. "No more forward than any other guest may. Everyone wants to dance with the princess."  
  
Emmeryn chuckles. It is soft and insincere and makes blood rush in Camilla's ears despite the fact she knows it is only physical attraction— Softness is difficult to wear like armor as Emmeryn does; between Camilla's immense respect for that and the fact that, by all accounts, Emmeryn is absolutely beautiful, it logically makes sense to Camilla why she's suckered by completely transparent sociopolitical maneuvers.  
  
It's silly, her head says. It is, but I want it, her core replies.  
  
She is only human. She cannot help but want, sometimes.  
  
"We don't have to dance," Emmeryn says. "I intend to stay out here for a time, either way."  
  
"Your wife won't miss you?" Camilla raises an eyebrow behind her mask, remembers it's hidden, and nods towards the ballroom. Because yes, of course the Royal Consort is here— they entered arm-in-arm, announcing their union to all the world. And of course, Camilla knows she's not only married, but has a young child at home in Ylisse. She pays attention.  
  
"She understands," Emmeryn says. Her eyes, blue eyes, glimmer behind the mask. Camilla knows this dance is not romantic; the understated flirtation means nothing but that Emmeryn is playing the game of nobility, and to allow herself to feel heartbroken over this would be a foolish move on Camilla's part.  
  
And yet, she wants.  
  
"We can dance," Camilla says. She wants. "It would be an honor, your Grace."  
  



End file.
